THE QUESTIOANBLE TALES:
A STEAMPUNK QUINTET
by
Michael Seeley
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Michael Seeley on Smashwords
The Questionable Tales:
A Steampunk Quintet
Copyright 2011 by Michael Seeley
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
* * * * *
Table of Contents
* * * * *
The Questionable Tales:
A Steampunk Quintet
"The damndest part of it all, Winston, is that I believe I know him! Indeed, the resemblance is so striking!"
The exclamation was followed by a fist striking metal, a sound which hovered within the metallic room. Then, a portly gentleman extended a calming, nearly imperceptible smile toward the agitated speaker. Furthermore, lumbering forward, the heavy man began to pace back and forth, his tweed suit clinging to his back amid the heat of their surroundings. The recipient of Winston's grin was younger, taller, and normally utterly composed. Yet, on this particular occasion, Owen Ward felt drained emotionally. Indeed, the Irishman found his every breath catching in his throat. An unknowing observer might delegate this trepidation to downright fear, but a friend like Winston Ainsworth understood that whatever his faults, Ward did not fear; he did not fear death; he did not fear injury.
Over the years, Ainsworth had often bemoaned the perilous predicaments into which his companion dragged them. Through them all, Ward had remained stoic, unflinching. Now, however, it seemed that his friend's stalwart nature had lost itself amid the clouds. Glancing out the window of the airship, Ainsworth noted the fading sun. "Owen, they'll be time for hypothesizing and planning later. It's getting late, and, well... I'm rather famished all things considered."
Ward's eyes returned from their distant and unfocused gazing and aligned themselves pointedly upon Ainsworth's corpulent face. "Ha!" he exclaimed simply and good-naturedly. Laughing further, it seemed to Ward that his friend was always wasting away from apparent starvation. At times it remained an annoyance, but Ainsworth had been one of those companions who always came through, regardless of fear or reservations. For that, Ward was certainly willing to forgo the man's excessive eating habits. Besides, thought Ward warmly, the man can shoot quite well.
Exiting their relatively spacious stateroom, the men began ambling toward the airship's bar. The establishment was seedier than the dirigible's great dining room, but Ward occasionally enjoyed the shadier locales of life; tonight, a shroud of cigar-smoke and a touch of port would be a wonderful accompaniment to dinner. Given Ainsworth's hunger, Ward thought the man would appreciate the copious mounds of beef offered inside the Steamed Cloud.
As they passed each of the hallway's ports, Ward could not resist looking. From childhood, the man had continually been obsessed with air-travel. His love of the expanses and the dazzlingly alluring colors had never left him; consequently, the Irishman made it a point to travel by airship whenever the possibility arose. This vessel, the Questionable had been christened in '57. Indeed, two decades later, the airship was only a little younger than Ward himself, but the entire nature of the Questionable drew a laugh from his lips every time the man considered it.
Back in the '50s, the notion of the airship was still in its fundamental stage. In fact, Her Majesty's military branch of the Martial Air Core had only just been formed. Indeed, the MAC had possessed less than a dozen airships when a powerful group of investors gathered together and presented an idea to Government. While dirigibles allowed for military transport, reconnaissance, and bombing capabilities, the possibility of widespread economic use for airships had not been considered. These investors offered to fund a project in which airships were unleashed into the private sphere. Their scheme involved a fleet of government-regulated airships plying the sky-routes around the world. Instead of simply launching this plan with their own funding, the investors desired a government-imposed monopoly. As such, their investments would yield immense economic returns, and greed flowed from the group like winding river. However, their plan for monopolization quickly flopped when the government deemed the project's worth as "questionable" and refused to back the venture. Undaunted, the investors decided that launching the first private airship would yield more revenue than nothing, so the Questionable was fashioned and opened for service.
The term "smashing success" would be a drastic understatement.
The vessel, able to carry nearly three-hundred passengers, soon became the most popular topic in Great Britain. Passages were booked months in advance because of the dirigible's popularity. Citizens flocked from miles around to catch a glimpse of the majestic vessel whenever the Questionable's route took her overhead of some region of the Empire.
It soon became evident to the military that a giant and profitable blunder had taken place. The Questionable's success was soon copied as well. Civilian airships began to appear everywhere. Indeed, the influx of tourists, capital, and trade goods delivered by the flying fleet was staggering. To better regulate this activity, the Queen Victoria had implemented a set of new, organizational requirements for civilian airships. As a result of this, the Civilian Air Corps was formed. For her part, the Questionable's company never lost steam, so to speak. The inventive investors continually found ways to garner more interest in their particular airship. Even today, two decades after her christening, the Questionable was still booked to capacity long in advance of her voyages. Bars, fancy restaurants, theatrical shows, gambling houses, and other entertainments were available for the airship's clientele, and Owen Ward had traveled aboard the Questionable several times as she traversed the globe, striding among the clouds to the various regions of the Empire.
On this particular occasion, the Irishman and his friend were returning from the Cape Colony en route to Dublin. Although mundane investments had taken them to Africa initially, the two had managed to enjoy their business trip immensely; the lengthy excursion allowed for the pair to reminisce about past adventures and plan for future ones. Awaking from his revelry at the sound of a loud gurgling suspiciously coming from the direction of Winston's stomach, Ward ruefully realized that the most immediate adventure involved dinner.
Yet, even with the distraction of a looming, enjoyable meal, Ward could not escape his current predicament. If his suspicion was indeed correct, the consequences would be grave. However, little alternative remained. The man's hand had been forced, and he would act as became a gentleman. For, in truth, Ward was of the upper crust. Raised amid the hills of Ireland, he had come to enjoy the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of the upper class. Singularly, one uncompromising responsibility was the absolute necessity to answer for insults. As such, Ward would act, regardless of his hypothesis' veracity.
Ainsworth bustled ahead of his companion, apparently forgetting his friend's troubles in light of his own hunger. Chuckling to himself, Ward followed in the portly man's wake. They sauntered along the paneled and steel-reinforced hallways for some time until the passage finally came to the dirigible's great hall. The great hall housed the gambling house, the Steamed Cloud bar, and Chez Mattieu, the vessel's classier eatery. Truly, the great hall was a feat of engineering in itself. It was the largest open space on the vessel. This, of course, excluded the massive interior of the balloons that gave the Questionable her flight. Indeed, the great hall was spacious and constantly busy. It served as the central hub of the ship, and many passengers gathered within its expanse to watch the crowd or find other entertainments in which to pass the time. Finally, Ainsworth noticed Ward wasn't keeping pace, and he turned around to see what the lagging was about.
As Ward lengthened his stride to match pace with Winston, the larger man spoke. "Seems a mite bit busier tonight than last," he offered casually. Ward grunted in agreement but made no vocal reply. Instead, he continued his visual search of the great hall, his eyes dancing from face to face. His glance tracked each mustache's cut as he sought a glimpse of the hauntingly familiar face. Finally, as he had suspected, he glimpsed the man sitting amid one of the various games of chance occurring in the gambling section of the great hall. That was where the two had met, and Ward had been fairly confident that his opponent would return to his cards; indeed, he had not been mistaken.
Winston continued unawares. "Yes, but hopefully the busyness shan't delay our meal. You mentioned that the Steamed Cloud would be most accept-" Ward cut him off with a raised hand. Then, the Irishman whispered pointedly, "Our cur has returned this evening." The color drained from Ainsworth's face as he glanced around the room in agitation. Finally, he too caught sight of the man at the gambling tables. "Well, nothing for that; it seems we'll simply need to watch him and avoid interaction until his seconds arrive. Now Owen, please, let us eat; there's been far too many interruptions this evening. ...oh for pity's sake!" The last exclamation was offered in exasperation as another interruption to Ainsworth's meal presented itself.
Two nobly clad men were approaching Ward and Ainsworth purposefully. One possessed a prosthetic arm whose gears could easily be heard and the mechanical limb swayed in affected life-like movement. The brassy color of his arm contrasted darkly with his scarlet suit. His companion was a short, broad-shouldered fellow sporting Opticior goggles designed to improve vision. Ward had seen similar models several times, but, glancing at the lenses' machinery, Ward guessed that only the highly wealthy could afford the version this man had donned. Indeed, it seemed their mysterious antagonist possessed wealthy companions.
"Which of you is one Winston Ainsworth?" spoke the scarlet-clad leader after glancing at a personal calling card.
"I am he."
"Indeed. You have mentioned that you're quite willing to act as Mr. Ward's second. Does this remain accurate?"
"Indeed it does, sir. Furthermore, at this point, I'd ask for several minutes of your time to discuss particulars," Winston spoke formally.
This time, the goggled fellow spoke up. "This is why Mr. Fletcher has sent us." Instantly, Ward took in a sudden, sharp breath of air. Ignoring the disturbance, the shorter man continued. "If your friend would excuse us, such matters can easily be determined." Nodding pointedly at Ward, the two men strode off, expecting Ainsworth to follow. After exchanging a few keen words with Ward, the man complied, despite his hunger.
Fletcher.
The name changed everything, and yet, it could not affect anything. What had occurred was already the past. Truly, the insult almost seemed a blur, and yet, it was only one night past.
The previous evening, Ward and Ainsworth had adjourned from Chez Mattieu, nourished and slightly tipsy, having consumed a little more Grecian wine than might have been appropriate. Instead of retiring to their stateroom, as was probably advisable, the two instead wandered over toward the gambling tables. Once there, the pair had sat among several other patrons. Laughing boisterously, Ward had begun to bet on cards. The variant of chance, poker, had been imported from America, and its novelty was just enough to be wildly engaging. As such, Ward began placing rather large bets. Surprisingly, his luck held, and the man began collecting even larger winnings.
The night's fortune did not hold however, as a haggard, yet finely dressed man entered the game. Immediately, Ward had sensed something was wrong, despite his tipsy and adrenaline-induced stupor. Something was decidedly familiar about the newcomer. His face possessed an almost effeminate, curving quality that Ward knew inch by inch, almost as if he had traced the man's jaw in a portrait. Yet, even as he was studying the newcomer, Ward was in turn being examined.
After three or four more hands, the familiar faced fellow laid down his losing hand and stood. Ward expected him to walk away, his familiarity fading with his flight. On the contrary, the man walked decidedly around the table and stood, forebodingly, over Ward's chair. Glancing up, and despite his inhibitions, Owen could easily glimpse the vehemence present in the man's glowing orbs.
"I don't suppose the Irish have gotten over their irrepressible need to cheat, have they then?" The man spoke bitterly, each word a clipped insult. Indeed, his tone dripped bile.
Ward was too shocked to respond, but the challenge needed a rebuttal as others around the table began to look suspiciously in Owen's direction. Breathing quietly but wrathfully, the Irishman stood. "How dare you?" he hissed, his lips tightly pressed together.
His newfound opponent only shrugged and silently indicated Ward's pile of winnings.
"Bastard," spat Owen.
The next moment was a blur of movement, but Ward later recalled that Fletcher had struck him across the cheek. Such a blow was utterly unforgivable. Indeed, society dictated that any such physical contact called for blood, and quickly. As such, the two men had left, inflamed, and promises were made for imminent satisfaction. Tempers had been so heated that names had not even been exchanged. Rationally, Ainsworth had quietly talked with a friend accompanying Fletcher. This man, possessing a prosthetic arm, proved to be Fletcher's selected second. Thus, the two friends of the combatants had arranged for a future meeting.
Now, as Ainsworth walked away with the scarlet-suited figure, Owen again felt himself drowning in a cloud of trepidation. For he had finally recognized the resemblance.
Fletcher: a man whom he must save.
Fletcher: a man whose very actions had sentenced himself to death.
The contrast was maddening, but truly, there remained no escape from the quandary. Society made no exceptions; a duel would occur.
All appetite gone, Ward abruptly turned and left the grand hall. Instead of retreating back toward the stateroom, the man wandered the halls, his eyes reflecting the dull brass and iridescent silver adorning the walls. Out of various viewports, the sun continued its slow descent. For their part, the clouds rose up like waves, engulfing the burning orb in their caressing grasp. Desiring to glimpse the magnificent spectacle unfold, the man wandered toward the observation deck that graced the rear of the airship. Descending several flights of stairs, Ward finally came to the circular room. Its walls were sheer glass and several comfortable chairs had been placed in the room. Tranquility was embodied within the room's clutches, and many a passenger had willingly been taken in by the observation deck's allure.
Collapsing into the chair, Owen allowed himself to unwind. His friend Winston knew exactly how the Irishman proposed for the duel to take place. Furthermore, as he was the challenged, the terms of the duel were left to his discretion. Knowing this, Ward sunk deeper into the chair relaxing as fate began to take its course. On the celestial stage, the sun finally lost its titanic battle; sagging downward, the burning sustainer of life bowed to the encasing wisps and sunk below the horizon. Ward's eyes drooped heavily, and finally, the man lost his own battle to the night.
The morning found Winston shaking him awake, a nervous expression clouding the larger man's countenance. "Good morning friend," he spoke happily, his voice belying his face.
Ward shifted amid the chair's folds and stretched. On the horizon, the sun was only just breaking into dawn; the time had come.
"Thank you Winston; I had hoped you would know where to find me."
"Never easier, Owen, given your patterns." It was a fact well acknowledged that Ward escaped to the beauties of nature whenever something troubled him.
"Everything accounted for, then?" asked Ward. Winston nodded minimally in return. Then, together and silently, the pair exited the observation deck.
Passing through the silent and deserted halls amid the dawn, the pair met only the crew of the Questionable. Stopping by their stateroom briefly, Ward changed his attire, washed his face, drank a small glass of brandy, and snatched up a walking cane. Then, striding back into the hallway, the men steered toward the great hall. Reaching the open expanse, neither of the pair was surprised to glimpse three others waiting for their arrival. Fletcher, the man with the mechanical arm, and the goggled fellow all lingered in the hall. Ainsworth placed a hand on Ward's shoulder, halting him. Next, the friend assumed the official air of the second. He walked forward alone and greeted Fletcher's friends. Pleasantries over, the men retreated to their respected sides of the hall.
The hall itself had been cleared of any obtrusive furniture. Thus, the marble tiled area which rested in the center remained clear. Indeed, it seemed the airship's designers had specifically planned for affairs of honor. The marbled ground was ideal for a duel, and permission for the occasion had been surprisingly easy to obtain from the Questionable's captain; Ainsworth encountered no difficulties in that respect.
Ward began to unclasp his jacket. The pale grey leather slipped easily from his shoulders, the coat's long tails dripping toward the ground like a fallen tear. Furthermore, Ward undid the top button of his white under-shirt. Finally, he rolled the sleeves of the ornate garment. All of these measures were conducted to ease the seconds' task in glimpsing forthcoming blood. Across the great hall, Fletcher was mirroring his own movements. Finally, the two combatants strode forward to meet each other on the field of honor. Passing Ainsworth, Ward retrieved his cane and grasped his friend's arm in solidarity.
Next, he withdrew a hidden rapier from the cane's innocent facade. The blade was elegant, perfectly balanced, and finely honed by a German craftsman; truly, it was a graceful tool of life and death. Fletcher possessed a similar weapon, a further indication of his opulent social standing. Indeed, the two men were equal- gentlemen of honor and skill. Finally, the two men locked eyes and stepped onto the frigid, uncaring marble tiles.
Outside, the sun crested the veiled sea of clouds.
Inside, the thrum of the dirigible's engines churned the air.
Two hearts beat in unison, and silvered steel crossed within a brass world.
* * * * *
Much later, Owen sat heavily again on the observation deck, a pen in hand, a paper present, and a soul grieving. Gathered around waited Ainsworth and Fletcher's two friends. Silence reigned; it seemed that not even spilled blood could quell the dishonorable affair.
Yet, like a crystal dropping, a voice broke the silence, shattering the glass of solemnity. "You know, Ward," spoke the goggled second angrily, "You might have let him kill you instead, given your relationship."
Sighing heavily, Ward admitted that the thought had indeed crossed his mind. "Sad part is, though... I love her too much." He paused again. "I love my own life too much as well." Then, grasping all the power of his being, he lifted the pen, a weight far heavier than his crimsoned rapier, and wrote:
Dearest Ariadne,
Love, I've good and bad tidings to share. You've rarely spoken of Charles, your lost and wandering brother. What you do say is saddened by his fall into gambling and drink, but your affection is still apparent.
Fortuitously, I appear to have found this prodigal son.
Tragically, as fate would have it, I was also forced to kill him...
"Oh, come off it
Vaughn. You mean to tell me that nothing is worth dying for?"
The smile of incredulity creasing the face of the speaker was
almost lost in the dim lighting. His words carried clearly though,
and the rest of the listeners quieted down to hear the answer.